Withdrawal
by Phoebonica
Summary: Jacques died. Kit hid. But it's never quite that simple.


**Disclaimer:** ASOUE belongs to Daniel Handler, and I'm giving up on the cute disclaimers. I'm sure you're all relieved to hear that.

**Withdrawal**

_I will never leave this bed again_, Kit thought, staring up at the ceiling. _I will never go into that world outside, that world where terrible things happen and you have to keep going just the same. I'm too tired now. I can't do that any more._

There were sounds from outside the door. She didn't pay them much attention, but a part of her knew that that was probably Frank out there and he was pacing up and down outside instead of coming in here because when he'd told her the news she'd screamed and tried to hit him. He was waiting until she got over her initial shock, which proved that he didn't really know her all that well because when Kit was in shock her voice went quiet and she hardly moved at all. Screaming and flailing at people was what she did when someone told her the worst news of her life and she realised that she _wasn't_ shocked, that she'd been expecting this or something like this for a long time and where the shock should have been there was only a dark emptiness within her.

More sounds, voices raised. The door opened, and she saw light make its way across the ceiling and then the shadow of a tall figure, and thought _This is Dewey inside my room_.

Dewey sat down on the edge of the bed. His face was twisted with sadness and Kit watched the shapes it made as he spoke, not really aware of the words although she knew there were phrases in there like _imagine how you must feel_ and _everything I can_ and _be together_. He stopped talking and looked at her as if she would say something. He put a hand on her face, wiped away the drying remnants of a tear. Kit moved away from the hand. She didn't want it touching her, intruding. She wanted to rest. She curled up tightly on the other side of the bed, facing away, and Dewey took her by the shoulder and tried to turn her back round. _Please Kit_, he said, _please talk to me, please_.

_You are living in a world where my brother is dead. You are living in a world where the man I have known since before we were born and loved since before we could speak has been destroyed, slaughtered, has lived out the last moments of his life alone and helpless convulsing on the floor of some filthy jail cell and you are living in a world where I am _not even surprised_. How can you stand that, Dewey? How can you stay out there?_

She didn't say all that out loud. There was barely enough energy for the three words she did say, each of them having to break through the almost infinite space surrounding her to reach her lover on the far side of the bed. _Dewey. Go away._

He stood, shaking his head. _I love you_, he said, and Kit didn't say anything but she thought _Then let me stay here, where it's safe_.

He eventually left when she kept not doing anything, and shut the door for her but didn't lock it. Kit would have liked it to be locked, but it was too far away to reach. She pulled the covers over her head instead, so no one could see her.

(_they put a sheet over Jacques but it didn't protect him from anything it was too late to protect him from anything_)

She stopped the thought. All that was outside here. Inside there was only quiet and peace and her own warmth and the soft light that came through the covers. When she shut her eyes there were coloured patterns in the darkness and she watched them, drifting. No thoughts. Thoughts led her back outside. No time. It could have been hours that passed, or minutes, or days.

Water on her face. It was warm, and not unpleasant. She let it be there. Nothing else was touching her now, even the bed was fading away and she slept, finally, although she tossed and kicked without knowing it. Her dreams were a flicker of disconnected images, impressions that flitted away too fast for her to follow them.

She woke with a gasp, as though someone had kicked her. The room was growing dark now, and colder. She was _very_ awake, awake enough to feel the texture of the sheets below her and the way her clothes had ridden up as she slept, the haze she'd drifted in earlier gone now. Her mouth was dry and her throat sore, and her hair was tangled and matted around her, stuck to her face with dried tears.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, groaning. A wave of nauseating dizziness swept over her, and she moaned and leaned forward, clutching the blankets. For a moment she thought she would be sick, and then as the feeling subsided a little she realised what it was, this new thing twisting in the pit of her stomach. Not part of her grief, although all that was still there too, threatening to rush back and overwhelm her if she thought of it too much. But she hadn't eaten anything all day. That was all it was, just simple hunger.

She sighed with relief, then froze. That wasn't simple at all. That meant she had to get up, and go outside, and Jacques was still dead out there, everything out there was still wrong. She shivered, huddling up into a ball and pulling the blanket round her like a cocoon. Maybe it would pass if she just waited, tried to ignore it.

And then someone kicked her again. The baby. Her hands flew to her stomach, feeling hurriedly as if to check that she hadn't lost anything, that her child was still there, and how had she forgotten? How had she not realised, as she drew the walls of her sanctuary around her, that she wasn't alone in there after all, _couldn't_ be alone in there?

_Now I have to get up._

But still, she hesitated. Remembering her unspoken question to Dewey earlier, _how can you stand it?_ Once she was out there, she couldn't go back. She'd have to carry on, every day, through all the death and pain and sorrow.

_And what else would I have done? Baby or no baby, Kit, were you really just going to lie here the rest of your life? You could have just pined away, I suppose, starved yourself to death if you wanted, but is that really what you would have done?_

"No," she said out loud. Her voice was hoarse, faint from disuse. "No, I guess I wouldn't have."

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Sat there for a minute with her eyes closed, feeling the carpet beneath her bare feet. Grounding herself in the world outside, which was as cold and harsh and chaotic as she had known it to be.

But she would live in it anyway.

There was nowhere else to go.


End file.
